again dabbed out his eyes separately, and making a loop in the air of her thread and deftly catching it into a knot with her needle, seemed to bowstring him into the bargain.

For the terrors undergone by Mr Dolls that evening when his little parent sat profoundly meditating over her work, and when he imagined himself found out, as often as she changed her attitude, or turned her eyes towards him, there is no adequate name. Moreover it was her habit to shake her head at that wretched old boy whenever she caught his eye as he shivered and shook. What are popularly called “the trembles” being in full force upon him that evening, and likewise what are popularly called “the horrors,” he had a very bad time of it; which was not made better by his being so remorseful as frequently to moan “Sixty threepennorths.” This imperfect sentence not being at all intelligible as a confession, but sounding like a Gargantuan order for a dram, brought him into new difficulties by occasioning his parent to pounce at him in a more than usually snappish manner, and to overwhelm him with bitter reproaches.

What was a bad time for Mr Dolls, could not fail to be a bad time for the dolls” dressmaker. However, she was on the alert next morning, and drove to Bond Street, and set down the two ladies punctually, and then directed her equipage to conduct her to the Albany. Arrived at the doorway of the house in which Mr Fledgeby’s chambers were, she found a lady standing there in a travelling dress, holding in her hand — of all things in the world — a gentleman’s hat.

“You want some one?” said the lady in a stern manner.

“I am going up stairs to Mr Fledgeby’s.”

“You cannot do that at this moment. There is a gentleman with him. I am waiting for the gentleman. His business with Mr Fledgeby will very soon be transacted, and then you can go up. Until the gentleman comes down, you must wait here.”

While speaking, and afterwards, the lady kept watchfully between her and the staircase, as if prepared to oppose her going up, by force. The lady being of a stature to stop her with a hand, and looking mightily determined, the dressmaker stood still.

“Well? Why do you listen?” asked the lady.

“I am not listening,” said the dressmaker.

“What do you hear?” asked the lady, altering her phrase.

“Is it a kind of a spluttering somewhere?” said the dressmaker, with an inquiring look.

“Mr Fledgeby in his shower-bath, perhaps,” remarked the lady, smiling.

“And somebody’s beating a carpet, I think?”

“Mr Fledgeby’s carpet, I dare say,” replied the smiling lady.

Miss Wren had a reasonably good eye for smiles, being well accustomed to them on the part of her young friends, though their smiles mostly ran smaller than in nature. But she had never seen so singular a smile as that upon this lady’s face. It twitched her nostrils open in a remarkable manner, and contracted her lips and eyebrows. It was a smile of enjoyment too, though of such a fierce kind that Miss Wren thought she would rather not enjoy herself than do it in that way.

“Well!” said the lady, watching her. “What now?”

“I hope there’s nothing the matter!” said the dressmaker.

“Where?” inquired the lady.